


The Letter

by adslady



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts Letters, Muggle-born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adslady/pseuds/adslady
Summary: A one-shot about Hermione receiving her Hogwarts acceptance.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	The Letter

The Letter

* * *

The envelope, Hermione thought as she ran the pads of her thumbs across the emerald green writing bearing her name and address, was remarkably thick. A much finer material than the nearly translucent pages of her maths workbooks or simple library paperbacks, and much more satisfying to hold. Although already eleven years old (an accomplishment of which she was extremely proud) letters were still very rare, except on her birthday, but those were never hand delivered, let alone by a woman two whom Hermione had never been introduced.

  
The woman who had handed it to her was seated in the low-backed, leather armchair where only guests sat, although the rigidity with which she held herself and the cross of her legs at the ankles gave the imposing sense that she, not the Grangers, owned this drawing room. The woman, who had introduced herself as Professor Minerva McGonagall, was dressed in a dark green and cream tartan dress which stretched below her knees with an accompanying shawl draped around her shoulders and square-toed, brown heels. Overall, along with the strong salt and pepper of her drawn bun, her clothing gave Hermione the impression of someone of a great age, but perhaps, not entirely unpolished. She had been quite adamant that Hermione should stay for the conversation, and had offered Hermione the letter first without even extending it to her parents! With very curt introductions, Minerva McGonagall had strode across the doorstep and seated herself in the living room as if this was a commonplace occurrence, although Hermione was confident that she had never met nor seen this woman at either her school or the dentist’s office where her parents worked, the only two places she frequented adults. It was all very exciting.

  
Currently, this Professor McGonagall was clasping her hands around a fresh cup of tea, staring at the Granger family assembled on the sofa before her. Over the rims of her square spectacles she gave Hermione a thin lipped smile, revealing well-worn wrinkles that hinted that perhaps she did not always appear so serious. Hermione felt her shoulders loosen just slightly.

  
“Well, you would be the third family I have visited today,” she chirped in a crisp, Scottish accent. Hermione, who had never actually met anyone from Scotland and who had only heard the sharp tones on the telly, leaned forward. “Thank you for the tea, by the way, Mrs. Granger, you are right – just what I needed after all this travel.” Again she smiled without a visible tooth, taking a sip.

  
“As I mentioned to you on your doorstep, I am here to discuss the nature of Hermione’s acceptance into my institution and answer any questions you may have.” Here she paused to stare at each of the Grangers in turn, as if daring one of them to ask a question before she began. Hermione’s mom crossed her legs while her father stretched his arm behind her along the back of the sofa, but all three of them held their tongue.

  
“I am the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and as such it is my duty during the summer months to travel to the homes of Muggle-born students across Britain to inform them on the opportunity that awaits them. Of course, none of this will mean anything to you so I will endeavor to explain the surface of your questions before I open the floor to you to ask me whatever you like,” she said. Hermione’s headed pounded, tossing around unfamiliar words like muggle and Hogwarts, whatever those might be.

  
“Simply put, there are witches and wizards across Britain, and in fact across the world, living in secret. The Statue of Secrecy, enacted in 1692 for the protection of Wizardfolk, requires that we may neither reveal ourselves nor our magic to Muggles, or humans not in possession of magical abilities, unless in times of real need or in times such as this.”

  
“Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” the Professor said, playing her saucer and cup upon the side table. “You are both Muggles, meaning that neither of you possess magical abilities, or it is in quantities so small that you can neither summon the power nor register on our records. Hermione, on the other hand, is a witch,” she said with satisfaction. “Hermione is capable of magic, and when she was born her name was immediately written down for acceptance into Hogwarts.”

  
Hermione suddenly felt very small between her parents, and she wriggled her toes in her shoes. A witch? Her? The only images that came unbidden to mind were those of Disney animated villains or humpbacked cronies from illustrations of American Halloweens. Glancing down at her hands grasping the letter, Hermione half expected to see talons instead of finger nails and warts up and down her arms. Beside her, Hermione’s parents were very still, and her father had the familiar wrinkle on his brow he came home with after a day of particularly vexing root canals, but neither of them seemed capable of speaking. Professor McGonagall continued.

  
“Hogwarts is the only magical establishment in the United Kingdom, and in Hermione’s letter is her offer of placement as well as a shopping list of materials should you, Hermione, and your family choose to accept.” She spoke with the air of someone who was very accustomed to giving this speech, and although older, reminded Hermione a bit of the receptionist that worked at her parents dental office. The pause that had risen seemed to be swelling, and even Hermione noticed silence in the room.

  
“I know this may come as quite a shock to all of you,” Professor McGonagall finally said, her voice a shade less harsh, “but I must insist that this is both very legitimate and extremely important. Magical education for young witches and wizards is paramount for their own protection as well as the protection of Muggle and Wizard societies.”

  
And then, without any pretense, the woman reached into the sleeve of her tartan cape, pulled out a long, narrow piece of wood and tapped it on her teacup, turning it into a tortoise with a faint pop.

  
“Wow!” Hermione found herself saying, unable to rip her eyes away from the creature which was now dragging itself across the surface of her mother’s polished, marble side table. Professor McGonagall smiled briefly before tapping the shell of the tortoise once more with her stick and returning it to its teacup form with a clatter. The tea was still steaming.

  
Suddenly from within Hermione was a hunger more desperate than anything she had ever felt. There was no denying the physical realness of the woman before her, nor the inexplicable act she had just done. Turning a teacup into a tortoise, the only option was either Hermione had lost her mind, or that magic was as real as this woman claimed. All the questions that had buzzed around her mind seemed to spring forth.

  
“So Hogwarts is a school?” Hermione said slowly, still staring at the teacup, unable to hold her tongue any longer, “and if I go, I can learn how to do that?” Professor McGonagall beamed.

  
“You won’t start with teacups. You will work your way up through the curriculum, but yes, eventually, you will learn.”

  
“And you said I was the third home you’d visited? There are other students like me? And how come my mum and dad can’t do magic?” Hermione breathed, tucking long chunks of bushy brown hair behind her ears with both hands. “And how do you know I can do magic?” She asked as a second thought, suddenly subdued. As far as Hermione could remember, there had never been one hint in her life on other worldly powers. The answer to the latter question came, not from the stern woman before her, but from Hermione’s left.

  
“You can do magic, Hermione,” her mother said in a voice so small Hermione instinctively reached out and took her hand, letting her letter drop into her lap. “You were so young you would never remember. You’re dad and I, well, we thought we were going a bit mad,” she let out a hiccupping laugh, volume returning to her voice. She sounded much more like how Hermione expected her mother to sound. Mr. Granger gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze.

  
“Yes, honestly it’s a bit of a relief to hear you say it, Minerva. After all this time without another occurrence we put it off on sleep deprivation over a first child,” Hermione’s dad said, the wrinkle in his brow gone. “You kept making your favorite blanket appear places, even when we were certain we’d left it at home or packed away in your baby bag,” he added with a shrug and a smile for Hermione.

  
“Of course, that is very common,” Professor McGonagall interrupted, picking up her tea once more and taking a sip. “Children without a wand are unable to harness their magic and it often pops up in unexpected and uncontrolled ways. I am glad, however, that you recognized the oddities, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. The last muggle born family I talked too tried to throw books at me when I turned their radio into a pig.”

  
“As for your questions, Hermione. Yes, there will be other muggle born students who knew nothing of magic until this very conversation, and there will also be students raised in families with parents and siblings who are witches and wizards. It makes no difference seeing as no child receives his or her wand until age eleven,” Professor McGonagall explained. “To your second question, you are a witch and your parents are not because somewhere in the history of your family there was someone with magical blood. If you are curious who this might be, I can check the Ministry of Magic’s Brittany Squib Registry, however, I must warn you, it was not well maintained before 1892 and we may find nothing.” She did not offer to elaborate on what a squib was.

  
“So I can decide if I want to go – to Hogwarts, that is?” Hermione whispered, hugging herself and leaning back into the sofa cushions. Just the name alone sent a tingle down her spine, and again she felt the gnawing in her stomach as she watch Professor McGonagall stow her wand up her sleeve.

  
“Yes, the decision is ultimately yours, although your parents must of course consent,” McGonagall replied with a nod.

  
Hermione paused only for one brief moment to glance from one parent to another. They were the smartest people she knew, prone to enforcing long study hours and giving out sugar free sweets on holidays. If they claimed she was a witch, then certainly that meant Hermione wasn’t wrapped up in some horrendous joke? Blinking once then twice, she dragged her eyes back to the teacup and finally the steely gaze of Professor McGonagall before nodding her head so rapidly that fistfuls of bushy hair obstructed her vision.

  
“Good, well. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, if I could have a word with you to discuss logistics, Hermione you could perhaps return to your room and review your letter?” Professor McGonagall suggested, getting to her feet. Hermione too nodded, somehow unsurprised by being excused by this complete stranger in her own home.  
“I will be seeing you soon, dear,” McGonagall said fondly before shaking Hermione’s hand and taking her seat once more. As she left the drawing room, Hermione heard the Professor’s brusque tones once more begin to speak.

  
“Now someone from the Muggle Liaison Office will be accompanying your family to Diagon Alley to purchase school supplies, and I will of course be placing you in touch with the staff at Gringotts to discuss currency exchange…”

It was not until much later that night as Hermione lay in bed, staring out the window at the streetlights and occasional flicker of a plane, that the excitement began to fade. Dinner had been a raucous meal, discussing topics she might study and her shopping list (which was very daunting) and even Hermione’s early signs of magic. Professor McGonagall and the accompanying letter from Hogwarts had raised more questions than she had answered. What was a squib and where was Hogwarts and was it part of this Ministry of Magic? Now that she was alone in her bed, Hermione flicked on her lamp and picked up once more the heavy yellow parchment and read through the list of required books and materials once more, her mind unable to stop whirling through a rapid fire list of questions.

  
Hermione was the best reader in her year – she had started reading full chapter books months before any of her peers even thought to pick up one. She had mastered her multiplication tables through sheer force of memorization, and her parents had of course encouraged her studies of science as doctors themselves. Yet staring at the other worldly titles on the parchment before her, Hermione felt a drip of cold slip down her throat and into her gut. Potions? Transfiguration? Magical Theory? There hadn’t seemed to be a lot of thought behind the Professor’s actions – she had simply tapped the teacup and without a word or a bead of sweat there had suddenly been a tortoise. But her parents assured her that there had been magic within her as a child – not that they have seen it since, a voice nagged at the back of her mind. What if she had lost her magic, or she couldn’t understand?

  
Even worse was the revelation that not all kids we’re coming from Muggle families (the slang term still unfamiliar to Hermione) like hers. The hunger that had eaten at her stomach, desire that had consumed her in the moments after McGonagall’s display of power, had faded completely, leaving only the faintest stirrings of nausea. All of the other students her year would certainly know what a squib was and why they would need brass scales and telescopes for their first year. And what was that bit about not bringing a broomstick to Hogwarts? Why had that even been included?

  
Restless, Hermione set down the letter and turned off the light, rolling onto her side so that she again stared out the window. She had never been bad at anything, well perhaps except sports, but her parents had let her quit at a young age. Academically, however, Hermione excelled in all areas. Yet kids across Britain had grown up with magic apart of their very beings, most likely accustomed to magics Hermione could not even imagine. The unfairness of it all made the nausea in her stomach bloom and sent an acid taste across the back of her tongue.

  
Taking a deep breath and blinking away the tears that stung at her eyes, Hermione reminded herself of the Ministry Official her parents had told her about at dinner. He or she would be arriving in a few days to travel with the Grangers to collect all her needed supplies. I’ll just make sure that I read every night Hermione assured herself, attempting to still the racing in her heart. That way, she would at least be ahead of the other kids who, like herself, came from Muggle families with no knowledge of magic at all. Kids like her who had been blessed with such opportunity, and kept from it their entire lives until now. This spark of determination lit, Hermione nestled down into her sheets and eventually found uneasy sleep.


End file.
